


The Rise of Stella Gibson: Part 1

by SmokeMonsterSyd



Series: The Rise of Stella Gibson [1]
Category: The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokeMonsterSyd/pseuds/SmokeMonsterSyd
Summary: Stella Gibson is a woman with a past that she keeps close to her chest. Here is my interpretation of what may have influenced Stella to be who she is today. Part 1 of 3.





	The Rise of Stella Gibson: Part 1

One of the earliest things that she can remember is learning how to swim.

For Stella, it almost came naturally, although the first few moments in the water were frightening, if not exhilarating. She can remember smelling the first whiff of chlorine like it was yesterday, a walloping punch to the nose, a sensation she immediately recognizes a few years later when good old Todd Bilco sucker punches her in year 5. It was early in the morning during the summer, a “new tradition” her father promised, swimming in the morning before he headed to work. The only problem was that she didn’t know how to.

_“I’ll teach you how, Little Star.”_

_And then the next thing she knew, she was flying through the air and the roar of water dominated her senses. Chlorinated water threatened to fill every inner organ, but she had always been a fighter, forcefully pushing air out of her nostrils as she instinctively kicked and opened her eyes, reaching for the edge of the pool. To Stella, it felt like hours went by, but really it was only minutes. Everything inside her was screaming for air, crying out in pain, but she knew if she tried to breathe that it wouldn’t work. By the time she pulled herself out of the water, gasping for breath, her heart was pounding and her arms were running on pure adrenaline as they held her above the water line. She could see the lifeguard, panic in her eyes, just a foot away from her. She turned her head towards Stella’s father, mouth gaping, as he shrugged._

_“Oops.”_

_“Why the hell would you do that?” she practically screamed._

_“She’s fine,” he said, and smiled at Stella, “Right, Little Star?”_

_She returned his smile and simply nodded. She was fine, indeed._

Now, every time she finds herself in a pool, she thinks about that moment. As soon as the chlorine comes back to her, like an old friend, the rush of adrenaline pumps through her body and inspires such activity that she rarely feels the ache of her muscles before she leaves the pool deck.

She pulls her body through the water with her arms, kicking in rapid succession as she makes her way further down the lane. She’s so used to the rhythm, it’s almost like it’s own song, but just a beat without any lyrics.

_Kickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkick_

_Swiish-swoosh-swiish-swoosh-swiish-swoosh-swiish-swoosh-breathe_

Until the end of the lane, where she expertly flips and pushes back off the wall, starting a whole new verse. Her team mates and coach always joke about how she could out swim death, if only he came to everyone in water. She could swim as much as the day is long and not feel a thing until the chlorine permanently receded from her senses, and even then her peers wondered how she managed to attend school the next day. The final whistle let’s loose the call to arms with land just as Stella finishes her final lap and her fingertips touch the wall.

“Alright fishes, good work today, bloody good work,” Coach calls, his voice carrying and echoing around the walls, “but Stacey, I would suggest some weight lifting in the gym if you want to pull ahead of Stella.”

“Yeah, right, like that’s gonna help me,” Stacey mutters, and Stella gives her a small smile.

She nimbly pulls herself out of the water, knee first against the pavement, before standing to her feet.

“When is he gonna realize that no one on this team will ever beat you?”

“Mmm, probably when he’s dead.”

Stacey, although only a member of the team for over a week, already seemed to win the heart of their exuberant coach. While Stacey seemed to be glad to be on the team, she also seemed a bit nervous about the amount of pressure being placed on her shoulders.

“Why doesn’t he like you, you’re the best swimmer on this team,” she says, shaking her head.

For as long as she can remember, Stella has been very in tune to anyone and everyone’s emotions around her, without even needing to ask. At times it is very useful, like now, determining whether Stacey likes her or not, and other times it can be debilitating. Stella knew from the first practice of the year that Coach didn’t like her that much. She had expressed her concern to her father one night at the dinner table.

_“I don’t think this swim team is a good idea,” she said to her salad._

_“Why not, Star?” he knew she was avoiding his gaze, and she knew that he knew._

_“I don’t think coach likes me,” she said, with a shrug._

_Her father simply laughed, and she finally met his eyes across the table._

_“He’s probably threatened by your skill,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “because he knows you’re probably better than him.”_

_“You think?”_

_“I know.”_

Stella smiles to herself as she towels off, thinking of the twinkle in her father’s eye as he told her she shouldn’t stop doing what she loved just because some washed up jock didn’t like that she was better than him. However, Coach’s lack of praise throughout the season so far was disheartening.

“I guess winning competitions and such isn’t as important as him keeping his record for fastest swimmer in school history,” she says, wrapping her towel around her body and heading towards the locker room.

Stacey follows closely behind her. “Really?”

Stella nods and points at the plaque with Coach’s name and record time nailed to the wall by the entrance to the locker room, at the bottom of all the other record holders.

“I was close to beating it during practice last month, but then he announced to everyone in the pool that I had at least two more laps, when I was definitely down to just one.”

Stacey’s eyes widened and her mouth made a little “o” shape. “Wow, what a jerk.”

Stella shrugs as she opens her locker and pulls off her swimming cap, her dirty blonde hair tumbling across her shoulders.

“My father says that’s just the kind of thing men do when they feel threatened by women who are better than them,” she says, pulling out her clothes.

“Yeah, doesn’t mean it’s okay,” Stacey mutters.

Stella looks at her briefly over her shoulder, her blue eyes twinkling. “Why do you think i haven’t quit yet?”

Stacey watches in awe as Stella struts off to the showers and thinks, not for the first time that year, that she might not exactly be straight.

\---------

There are many eyes that watch her as Stella makes her way down the hall, her ponytail swinging back and forth from the bounce in her step. She feels them follow her, sees a few people stop and do slight double takes, but continues on. The attention is unsettling, but at the same time, she feels some sort of power in it, like at any moment she could stop and say one single word and everyone would obey. However, if her issues with her mother had taught her anything, it’s that attention is demanded by those who are selfish, and therefore should only be earned by those who deserve it. So she stays quiet, looks straight ahead, and continues on her way to her classroom. **  
**

The class is Literature, and although it’s not her favorite subject, Stella still makes sure to sit in the front row and pay attention to the lecture. She can hear snickering and rustling behind her as her teacher drones on, but she ignores it, and studiously takes detailed notes. Occasionally the teacher poses questions that she could easily answer, but Stella sees no point in drawing that kind of attention to herself, especially considering all the bullying she has seen in her lifetime as a student. It always starts out the same way.

The giggles and movement behind her seems to be louder than normal today, as if the entire mob is huddled right against her back, their grinning faces just centimeters away from her ears. It’s as if all attention is focused on her, although she’s not sure why, and finds it even more sinister than what happened in the hallway just fifteen minutes ago. Goosebumps rise along her spine as a bad feeling floods her veins like a freak storm on the horizon. She briefly rubs her neck to settle her skin back to some sort of normal, but the chill is still there.

The creak of the classroom door grabs Stella’s attention while simultaneously silencing the room. The young woman seems conflicted, as if she isn’t sure if she should come in or take the teacher out into the hallway for whatever she is here for.

“Please, come in,” he says, saving her the trouble.

She takes a small breath in, only visible to Stella it seems, and lifts her head as she walks to the front of the room to address the teacher.

“We need to see Stella Gibson, I have a note here for an early dismissal,” she says, quietly, but considering Stella’s in the front row, it’s kind of hard to miss her name being said.

“Gibson, pack your things.”

The classroom breaks out into a chorus of “oo”s.

“Hush, peanut gallery,” he says, and hands Stella some papers, “For homework tonight.”

“Thank you,” she says, pulling her bag over her shoulder and standing.

“Enjoy your day off.”

She follows the woman out into the hall, who has now adopted the same anxious look that she had before being invited into the classroom. She nervously taps her fingers against her leg and Stella feels that weird spine altering feeling from before.

“Is there something wrong? I don’t have any appointments scheduled for today,” Stella says, but somehow she knows she doesn’t need to ask.

“Come with me, please,” the woman says, and turns her back to her as she heads off towards the main office. Stella follows reluctantly behind her, wringing the strap of her bag within her hands. The woman leads her down to the main offices, silently opening the door and leading her into the head’s office.

The Headmaster is sitting with his fingers laced together on his desk and looks up at her as she comes into the room, but her eyes are not focused on him. Stella is too busy wondering why her nanny, Anna, is sitting in the chair opposite his desk. Anna avoids her eyes, and it seems the head doesn’t even want to look at her either. They don’t have to say anything for Stella to understand that something bad has happened, she can feel the tension in the room building and thickening like mud in a swamp.

“Have a seat, Miss Gibson,” he says, indicating the other chair with his hand.

She silently sits and waits for him to speak, and he takes in a deep breath before doing so. In those two seconds, Stella prepares herself for the worst, shutting off everything she’s feeling, including the feelings of everyone around her. She is a blank canvas covered in plastic now, super protected from any kind of paint that may splatter her way.

“Your father was found dead in his study this morning,” he finally says.

No preamble. Not even an apology. Or, if there is one, she tunes it out.

His lips move, she sees them move, but there is nothing meeting her auditory nerve. She stays quiet as she watches his lips move, and between the fumble of his lips, she thinks she makes out the words “loss”, “grieve”, “sorry”, and “day”. She’s not even sure that is the right order of those specific words, but before she can figure it out, Anna’s gentle hands are pulling her by the arm out of her chair and wrapping a jacket around her shoulders. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, almost like a dream, and her vision blurs around the edges as she is lead down the hall and out of the school.

\---------

It’s an open casket wake, followed by a burial. Stella isn’t sure who made that decision, exactly, but as she gazes upon her dead father’s beautiful face, she can’t help thinking it was a mistake. Her mother managed to find some time in her schedule between work and her active social life to attend, standing regally in the corner as silent tears stream down her cheeks. Her father’s coworkers and her own family take turns giving their condolences, but not one of them says a word to stony-faced Stella, who only has eyes for her father. It’s just as well, though, because Stella probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a voice and a gunshot. Since she found out, the world seems to have faded into a dream.

Suicide. The doctor’s note on his desk confirming the brain tumor to be inoperable.

In his note, he only addressed Stella. He said he was sorry, but somehow his apology wasn’t enough. No matter how many time he could have written it, it didn’t change that he was leaving for good.

Stella and her mother take their place in the procession out of the church, behind the casket and just before the rest of the guests. Her mother holds her head up high, showing off her tears, her hands on Stella’s shoulders. Stella keeps her eyes in front of her, trained on the flowers placed so carefully on top of the casket.

_“Stella for Star!”_

_He pops his head around the corner and gives her a small smile. She returns it, but barely._

_“Hi, Daddy,” she says._

_“Why so melancholy, Little Star?” he says, stepping into the doorway._

_“What does melancholy mean?”_

_“It’s a posh word for ‘sad’.”_

_She makes a slightly dramatic sigh. “I’m sick, Daddy. I don’t feel good.”_

_“I’ve got just what you need,” he says, smiling._

_He pulls his hands out from behind his back, and in them he holds a bouquet of flowers. He places them gently on her night stand, and moves a few stems about, almost as if he’s fluffing up the bouquet like a pillow._

_“They are pretty, but, Daddy, how are flowers supposed to help me with this flu?” she asks, squinting a bit, and coughing._

_“You know flowers make oxygen, right?”_

_Stella nods._

_“Fresh air will make you feel better, Star, no better medicine than nature,” he says, and pats her head, “Plus, a little color in this room couldn’t hurt.”_

The car door slams shut just as Stella pulls her feet in. She can feel her mother sitting next to her, fixing her make-up, apathy for the situation rolling off her mother and towards Stella in waves. Her first set of feelings come to her for the first time in days, a dull ache in her chest, manifesting into something she can’t quite put her finger on. She shakes slightly as the tears finally come to her, a sob escaping with them.

Her mother rolls her eyes. “Oh, please stop, Stella, it’s really not attractive when you do that.”

She continues to stare at her reflection in her compact mirror as Stella looks at her incredulously.

“My crying…is unattractive?”

She rolls her eyes again as she dabs at her lips. “You’re not the only one who is sad, Stella, he was my husband. Stop drawing attention to yourself.”

Stella bites her cheek and shakes her head, staring out the window. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands, biting back many spiteful comments germinating in her mind. How could this woman have the nerve to tell her she can’t cry because it’s unattractive, let alone call this man her husband as if she owns him? She’s the one who is never around, was never there to love him the way he deserved, running off to distant countries to do God knows who. The audacity in her small mind to think and genuinely believe that she is the only one who lost him, the only person who was ever in his life, the only one to be betrayed by his departure, sends Stella’s head spinning. He was her father, for fuck’s sake, and the only parent that ever cared. Stella had much more to lose than her flighty mother.

“How is crying in the back of a town car ‘drawing attention to myself’?”

“Drop the attitude, Stella, you just want everyone to feel sorry for you,” she spits, “like always.”

“Do you really think what you did back there in that funeral home was not ‘drawing attention to yourself’? You’re mad,” Stella shoots back.

“I’m the widow, I’m allowed to grieve. I loved him.”

The way she responds is with a heavy dose of arrogance, wrapped in a layer of righteousness. Stella’s stomach churns.

“No, actually,  _I_  loved him,” she retorts.

Her mother scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You don’t understand, stupid girl.”

“I loved him more than you ever did–”

“Oh, please–”

“And he deserved much more than to die associated–”

“Shut up–”

“–with fucking rubbish, like you.”

Stella feels the sting of her knuckles against her face before she even sees it coming. Blood rushes to the skin where she was stricken, and to her cheeks in embarrassment and anger.

“I told you to shut up, and you will listen to me,” she said, her teeth gritted.

Stella resists every urge to touch her face and to make sure she isn’t bleeding, trying not to show how affected she is by the sudden violence.

“You need to brush up on your manners because I will not have you speak to me in that tone ever again, do you understand me?”

Avoiding eye contact, Stella nods.

“If you ever speak to me like that again, I will not hesitate to ship you to the nearest orphanage, am I making myself clear?”

Stella nods again.

“Good.”

In the commotion, neither passenger realized that the car had come to a stop at it’s destination. Stella’s mother readjusts herself to look presentable, even though nothing had changed about her appearance in the last five minutes, and pushes open the door, stamping out onto the pavement before slamming the door shut. Once she’s gone, Stella lays her face in her hands, breathing deeply, checking for any possible bleeding. Her heart is racing and her eyes are burning with unshed tears, but she holds them in anyway, along with her breath. The door opens beside her just as she starts to go numb, the feeling in her fingers gone and her emotions back to neutral.

“Are you okay, miss?” the driver asks.

She looks up into his kind, grandfatherly face, etched with concern. Stella doesn’t miss out on the irony of a stranger caring more about her than her own mother. She gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and she knows it.

“Yes, I’m alright, sir,” she says, stepping out of the car, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Clearly, he heard every word to the conversation, and that fact satisfies Stella, somehow. At least now someone else knows what a monster her mother truly is, no matter how much she pretends not to be. A random stranger now knows the truth.

She makes her way up the hill toward the crowd of people, and finds her seat in the front. Despite her position front and center, no one looks at her, as if she is the one who is dead and gone.

She almost believes it’s true because, as her father is lowered into the ground, she doesn’t shed a single tear.

\---------

_Kickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkick_

_Swiish-swoosh-swiish-swoosh-swiish-swoosh-swiish-swoosh-breathe_

She is back in the studio again, practicing her song, pushing her way down the lane. She can hear coach shouting by the edge of the pool in between the swishing of the water around her head, like a tambourine in the background. At first it is muffled, but as she swims closer to the final edge where he stands, his words become clearer.

“Come on, Lisa, come on, you’re almost there, pull through! Two more inches and you’ll beat her!!”

Stella kicks her legs hard, pushing and bending the water to her will with her fingers, forcing herself to go faster even as her lungs are threatening to give out. She feels her body torpedo just a bit faster, waves pulling at her swim cap as if trying to pull her back into the water, but she fights. She’s fine, she’s okay, she’ll make it.

Her fingers jam against the wall and she comes up for air with a gasp, grabbing the edge with her arms. On the side, coach is clapping his hands, standing in front of Lisa’s lane, just 4 lanes over from Stella.

“Bloody good work, Lisa, you’ll get her next time,” he says, reaching his hand down to help her out of the water, “Good job, fishes, hit the showers.”

The rush of the adrenaline runs out of her body, pooling in the puddle of water she leaves beneath her feet on the deck. Something like bile rises in her throat as she starts to feel the first bit of emotion since her father was put in the ground. At first it starts off as worthlessness, but as the finer details of the situation start to sharpen in her mind, it turns into anger. She opens her mouth, expecting an explosion of her lunch, but words fall out instead.

“Are you kidding me?”

When coach turns to look at her, Stella’s arms are crossed over her half-exposed chest.

“What’s up, Stella?”

“You understand that I won this race, right? Why do I never get praised?”

“You win all the time, Stella, I was just trying to encourage the other–”

“Oh, fuck you,” she growls.

She rips off her swim cap and balls it up in her hands, squeezing it like a stress toy. Coach is so shocked by her response that he can’t think of what to say, just stands with his mouth gaping open. She takes this opportunity to continue on her rampage.

“There are plenty of other ways to encourage people without putting someone else down, you fucking arse.”

Her words start out quiet, but gradually become more shrill. The rest of the girls have stopped on their way to the locker room to listen in on the conversation, some covering their mouths as if they can’t believe what is happening. Perhaps they can’t, Stella had always been quiet and obedient.

“You could have said, ‘wow Lisa, your timing has improved since last time, good job’, not ‘don’t worry, you’ll beat that fucking show off’–”

“I never said–”

“You don’t have to, I get the point, you fucking wanker!” she shouts, throwing her cap at his head. He ducks to get around it, mouth agape.

“I work my fucking arse off, as I have for years, and not once have you congratulated me for anything I’ve done. All you’ve done is put me down to bring other people up, and for what? So you can keep your precious fucking title?”

She yanks her towel off the bench as coach starts to approach her.

“Stella–”

“I fucking quit,” she says, and starts to walk away.

“You can’t quit, we have an important meet this weekend, we need you,” he says, shouting after her.

She abruptly stops in her tracks and turns back around, advancing on him like a shark after it’s prey.

“Oh, now you care about winning? Maybe if you need someone on your team, you shouldn’t treat them like rubbish. That’s what we are, you know? A fucking team, and all you’ve done is try to pit everyone against me,” she says, almost jabbing him in the chest with her pointer finger.

“We will see what your father has to say about you quitting,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest, as if he’s won the argument.

Her first thought is,  _Do it, he’ll agree with my decision_. Her next thought is of his face the last time she ever saw his body. His too tan skin from the makeup they put on him, the crinkles around his eyes more prominent than when he was alive, his grey hair styled as if he did it himself. Tears spring to her eyes, but she chokes them back as she pushes out her next words.

“Well, when you figure out how to contact him, let me in on the secret,” she says, icily.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s fucking dead,” she says, and her tears start falling as gasps echo around the pool deck.

She hadn’t told anyone.

She turns on her heel and walks purposefully towards the door, her head held high as the tears tickle her chin.

“Stella!” he calls after her.

She flips him off just before she pushes through the doors, determined to walk miles home in her wet bathing suit.

\---------

There is something wrong. No one really notices. Stella was never one to beg for attention, but this situation isn’t about that to her. The only person she ever accepted attention from is gone, his body ten feet under the earth, her happiness right beside it.

She continues to study and pay attention in school, keeping up appearances like her mother would have told her to do if she was ever in the house for more than five minutes, or cared. She doesn’t do it for her, though. She does it for her father.

She zips up her coat as she steps onto the bus, taking her usual seat for the ride home. The time during transport is always a good time for thinking. Actually, not so much a good time for thinking, but more like thinking becomes inevitable. Stella goes over the day in her head, and the week, and the last swim practice she had, biting her thumb nail in concentration. If she was continuing to do well in school for her father, then why didn’t she continue swimming?

Why was she doing this for him at all? He didn’t even try to fight through his illness, his rough patch. He just left. He didn’t try for her, so why should she try for him?

Resentment and abandonment bubbles in the pit of her stomach as she departs the bus and walks the few blocks to her house.

Was she really not important enough for him to keep fighting? She needed him, and she trusted him, but in the end he chose himself over her like every man he warned her about. Now, she is left fending for herself, completely alone, no potential back up incase something goes wrong, and she knows she isn’t good enough. She isn’t strong enough.

She opens her front door and heads straight for the stairs, not bothering to turn on any lights in the gloomy house.

God forbid she let anyone know she isn’t strong enough, her mother would eat her alive. He was the only one who understood, the only one who taught her things, and now she’s left in complete darkness and sorrow. What’s the point of trying when no one is here to care anymore?

As she goes to walk through her bedroom doorway, a sharp pain on her shoulder stops her in her tracks.

“Ow, what the–”

A nail sticking out of the siding had left a gash on her arm. The pain, although brief, had stopped her train of thought, and sent a throbbing throughout her body. _I deserved that,_  she thinks to herself,  _if i should blame anyone for his leaving, it should be me_.

As she heads to her bathroom and dabs at the wound, her thoughts come back, starting off as a whisper and gradually becoming louder in her ears.

He left you because you were too much for him, they say, always begging for his attention. He was tired of it, so he left the only way he knew how. He probably wasn’t even sick, it was just an easy way to escape from you. You’re worthless, Stella, and nothing you ever do will change that. You were never good enough for him, and you’ll never be good enough for anyone else. Maybe if you paid more attention to him, instead of yourself, you would get that.

“He loved me,” she whispers.

How do you know that, besides his words? You know people can lie, you do it all the time. If he really loved you, he wouldn’t have left. But instead, your selfishness and egocentrism pushed him to kill himself. Good job, Wonder Woman.

“Shut up,” she spits.

But the voices continue, berating her, beating her, as she searches her bathroom for something to stop them. She practically tears through her cabinet as an idea comes to her, searching for the brand new pack of razors Anna bought last week, grunting with the effort. She rips open the packet as the voices question her intelligence, would a smart person actually do what you’re thinking, you attention sick bitch, and they are probably right but oh, God, make it stop.

The first slice across her bare thigh makes her cry out, but somehow it drowns out the voices.

The next slice hurts a little less. When she looks down at what she’s done, anger surges through her body again, and she’s afraid the voices will come back, but the fear doesn’t push out the anger she feels towards herself for resorting to this.

She takes another slice, and another, until she loses count, her hands covered in blood, tears streaming down her face. She goes until she doesn’t feel anything anymore, until the tears have stopped and the voices are gone.

She picks herself up, cleans up her mess, and keeps the razors out on the counter, before heading to her room to complete her homework.

Because keeping up appearances and pretending like she was okay, not slowly dying on the inside, is what her father would have wanted.

After all, she’s doing all this for him.

\---------

They walk side by side into his solicitor’s office, her mother just a few inches taller, her hair pulled back into a neat twist. They are both dressed in their best business attire, complete with heels and hair teased to the nines. Stella easily keeps pace with her mother, but keeps her head down as to not draw attention to herself.

Stella had always enjoyed the click of high heels, but somehow her mother stomping across the foyer of the office makes her more anxious than hypnotized. The slight movement of her thighs as she walks is almost too painful for her to bare.

“Do keep up, Stella,” her mother pants.

She rolls her eyes and self-consciously runs her hands down the front of her skirt, wincing as her warm palms make contact with the fresh cuts on her skin.

“Hello, we are here to see David,” her mother says at the receptionist, rummaging in her purse for her compact.

“What time is your appointment?” she asks.

Her mother looks up from her mirror and raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you not know who I am? Find my name in the book.”

“Name?”

Her mother rolls her eyes and puts her compact back in her purse. “Gibson.”

Without looking down, the woman smiles.

“He’s ready to see you now.”

Stella bites her thumb nail in an attempt to stop her laugh and hide her smile. Her mother immediately turns her head and pulls her hand from her mouth.

“Come, Stella,” she says, holding her eyes briefly, and turning away.

Stella follows her to the back room, where a man with very large glasses and white hair sits behind a neatly organized desk. There are bookshelves behind him with binders and folders, but other than those shelves the room is almost bare. After greeting the man with a handshake, Stella and her mother sit in the chairs facing his desk.

“So, you two are here for a reading of the will? I believe I have it right here,” he says, rummaging around his papers on his desk.

“Can we make this as quick as possible? I have an appointment I need to keep with a client,” her mother says, shortly.

He looks to Stella, a small sympathetic look on his face, but she just presses her lips into a line and shrugs slightly in response.

“Alright,” he says, “I’ll make this as quick and painless as possible.”

“Thank you.”

He straightens out the paper in his hands and pushes his glasses further up his nose, clearing his throat. Stella stares at one particular spot on his desk that is shaped like the bud of a rose, and bites down on her thumb nail.

“I, John Scot Gibson, the fourth, do hereby declare that all my assets go to my daughter, Stella, on the occasion of my death, including the house, everything in it, and all of my money. In addition, her nanny, Anna Catherine Rome, is to have a job with Stella until she is old enough to care for herself, and can find a suitable replacement job for her. Stella’s college education has been paid for in advance, and I would like to encourage her to use this opportunity wisely. I know she is fully capable of doing so.”

There is a long, tension filled silence. Stella stares at the paper in David’s hand as a feeling of dread goes through her, and then a wave of rage from her mother next to her. She swallows thickly and squeezes her thigh, trying to calm herself before the storm hits.

“What about me?” her mother says, through gritted teeth.

David looks at Stella apprehensively before training his eyes back on her mother’s face.

“Your name is not stated anywhere on this document,” he responds, nervously.

“Why not?” she says, abruptly standing up, “I’m his wife, for fuck’s sake.”

Stella can feel the anger growing in her mother, more so than what she felt before, and suddenly she is scared for this man’s life, as well as her own.

“Mum,” she says, reaching for her arm.

“Don’t ‘Mum’ me,” she yanks her arm out of Stella’s reach, disgusted, “You got everything you wanted, and I didn’t even get what I was owed!”

She doesn’t look at Stella, but stares down David instead, who seems to be cowering slightly in his chair. Stella can almost see the steam coming off her mother’s body, rage boiling over. She keeps her voice as level as possible and speaks, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in the room.

“Don’t blame him, he only did what dadd–”

“I’m not blaming him, you stupid girl, I’m blaming you!” she shouts, finally turning on her.

Stella’s mouth gapes open in surprise, because that was the last thing she expected to hear. Once the words absorb into her brain, however, she realizes that she probably should have expected this to happen. It was her mother’s specialty, to blame everything on her. It didn’t matter whether it was her father’s fault, or David’s, in her mother’s mind, it would always be Stella’s fault. Her stomach contracts in anger, nausea starting to form.

“What did you do to make him give you all his money, Stella?” she asks, her head cocked.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Well, obviously, you did, or he wouldn’t have left you everything he owned!”

David jumps up out of his chair, coming to face level with the two women.

“Ladies, if you are going to argue, please don’t do it here. I’ve said my peace, now please, leave.”

Her mother looks at him, and Stella, with disgust, turns on her heels, and walks out the door, her feet slamming angrily against the floor. Stella continues to stand in place for a few seconds before finally remembering her manners and turning to David. She thanks him and shakes his hand before bidding him farewell and walking after her mother. She closes her eyes with a sigh, settling her blood pressure slightly.

She jogs as best as she can to catch up, her shoes clicking on the floor, as she makes her way across the foyer to where her mother is pushing open the front door. For a second she contemplates simply walking home by herself, but figures it would be better to face her mother now rather than avoid her and risk her anger being far greater than it was just a few minutes ago. She practically has to jump into the cab as the door closes, her mother huffing, annoyed, as Stella makes it just in time.

“How many times did you fuck him before he finally agreed to give you everything?” she says monotonously, staring at the driver’s headrest in front of her.

“What?” Stella says, shaking her head.

“You heard me.”

Stella squares her jaw, staring daggers at the side of her mother’s face. “Maybe if you didn’t leave him and cheat on him all the time, he wouldn’t have given me everything.”

Her mother scoffs.

“I never cheated on him.”

“That’s a load of bollocks, and you know it.”

Her mother makes a face and shakes her head a little, as if mocking Stella, and it takes everything in her not to slap that stupid look off her face.

“He gave me everything because I actually cared about him. I took care of him when he was sick, I made him dinner, and I was his friend. All you did for him was have me–”

“And let me tell you, I regret it every day,” she says, finally turning to look at her.

Her eyes are cold and blank, but a twisted little smile graces her lips. Until this moment, Stella never believed that people could live without souls, but with the proof staring her in the face, it was hard to think otherwise. She goes to speak, and closes her mouth instead, keeping eye contact as her heart flutters nervously in her chest. Tears threaten to fall from her eyes, but she wills herself not to. She is okay, she is fine, she never needed her mother anyway. She makes a small nod before turning her eyes towards the side window, seeing the world while seeing nothing at the same time.

“I called a boarding school the other day, thankfully your grades have kept up enough for them to accept you. You leave in four days.”

Stella swallows the acid in her throat, and nods. No point in protesting the inevitable.

\---------

End of Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I hope you guys like this. Other parts of this story are potentially going to be more graphic, but I will put warnings on those when I finish them and post them. This is the first thing I have ever posted on here, though I have written other things. Please let me know if you would like to read them. Thank you all so much for reading!


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